Dreams Ground to Dust
by beesandbrews
Summary: Molly had a very different idea of what should have happened at John and Sherlock's Christmas party. Spoilers for 'A Scandal in Belgravia'. Follows 'A Consultation in the Dark'.


Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement is intended. Dialogue lifted from the episode 'A Scandal in Belgravia'.

Molly listened as Sherlock flippantly tore into her life, describing her motivations, her aspirations, and her feelings of inadequacy for the others as if it were a charming parlour game. As he spoke so airily, delving into her private thoughts as if they were nothing of consequence, she could acutely feel the other guests' rising level of second hand embarrassment. She'd been at the party for less than five minutes, and the evening was going straight to pieces.

Watching Sherlock's face abruptly sober as he'd casually flipped open the card and read his own name should have been the final disgrace. She felt about two inches tall and wished she could sink into the floor as much to spare the feelings of the others as to escape from the moment of abject humiliation.

Everything Sherlock had said in his rapid fire analysis was true. She had spent days agonising over the perfect gift and then, once she'd screwed up her courage and brought it home, an entire hour to wrap it, making sure the corners of the paper were folded perfectly and the bow tied just so. She'd hemmed and hawed over what to put on the card, filling page after page of a lab notebook with possible combinations of greetings and well wishes. Every time she'd picked up the pen her hand had trembled as her courage failed her. Finally, she'd thrown caution to the wind.

_Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly XXX _

She'd fantasized about the moment. How she would draw Sherlock aside away from the others into his kitchen, or if she were very bold, out into the hallway, and press the perfectly wrapped box into his hands. She had thought about it so much, even now as she died inside and ugly reality ground her dreams into dust, she could still picture his look of surprise and delight as he opened the card and read the message. He was meant to say something like, 'You shouldn't have, but I'm pleased you did.' before rushing back to the living room or (in her more wilder fantasies) to his bedroom, to retrieve an equally carefully wrapped gift for her. He wasn't meant to give her _that_ look.

His lovely hands should have trembled just a little. She was supposed to reach out and gently steady them. She was supposed to look into Sherlock's eyes and watch him smile down on her before he untied the ribbon and unsealed the paper. He would keep both as mementos, folding them carefully and putting them aside before lifting the lid on the box.

When he finally broke the seal on the tissue paper and revealed the gift itself, he would be struck dumb by the perfection of it. Impulsively, he would kiss her and then his eyes would light up as he realised that the real gift was her love, freely given. He would see her. Really _see_ her for the first time. Not as a useful tool. Not as someone to practice his observational skills on, but as a woman. He would sweep her into his arms and tell her that he loved her.

Instead, she was on the verge of tears, unable to look at him. "You always say such horrible things," she blurted. "Every time. Always. Always."

Sherlock turned away from her. He started to walk off, and then he turned back. "I am sorry. Forgive me." He leaned forward and he kissed her cheek. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." In that moment, her heart broke and her humiliation was complete.

Sherlock didn't love her.

Sherlock would never love her.

The brush of his lips against her cheek crushed her last hope. The kiss was meant as a kindness, but in that moment, Molly could think of nothing more cruel.

The breathless sigh that broke the mortified silence and Sherlock's reaction to it, only drove the point home. It was painfully obvious that there was a woman in Sherlock's life. And _she_, whoever _she_ was, meant a great deal to him.

Molly watched Sherlock home in on the source of the sound and snatch a small box wrapped in red paper and black cord off the mantle. She watched as he stared at it for a long moment, as if transfixed, and then walked abruptly from the room. She heard his terse, 'Excuse me.' and saw the stricken look Sherlock was trying to conceal, and knew he would never, ever, feel that sort of concern for her.

She was shaking. She remembered the wineglass in her hand and took a succession of quick sips. The party was clearly over and it was just as well because Molly wanted nothing more than to go home, mourn her lost love, and cry herself to sleep.


End file.
